


Love Will Tear Us Apart

by fairywearsbootz



Series: Love will tears us apart [1]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Mind Control, Or Is It?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-24
Updated: 2013-11-24
Packaged: 2018-01-02 12:34:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1056816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairywearsbootz/pseuds/fairywearsbootz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for <a href="http://1stclass-kink.livejournal.com/2292.html?thread=2057972#t2057972">this prompt</a> at the <a href="http://1stclass-kink.livejournal.com/">kinkmeme</a>:</p><p> </p><p>  <em>OKAY SO. charles can manipulate people with his mind. Charles falls in love with Erik, then Erik falls in love with charles. CUE ERIK NOT BEING SURE IF FALLING IN LOVE IS HIS FREE WILL OR NOT. </em></p><p> </p><p>  <em>*evil laugh*</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the wonderful [azewewish](http://azewewish.livejournal.com/). Originally posted to [LJ](http://fairywearsbootz.livejournal.com/6913.html) on 06-13-2011.
> 
> Now also available [in Chinese](http://mtslash.com/forum.php?mod=viewthread&tid=103610&extra=) (you can login with ID:authors and password:123456789) thanks to [MrSimpson](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MrSimpson/pseuds/MrSimpson).

On the night before they're supposed to stop World War III, Erik lies awake at 3 a.m. and watches Charles sleep.  


In the darkness enclosing them his eyes search for Charles' face, follow the lines around his mouth. Charles' breaths are quiet and Erik wonders when was the first time he'd wanted to reach out and touch Charles' hair, the first time he'd wanted to run his fingers over his lips, kiss him.

Charles looks so much younger than his years and Erik thinks, if he could just remember the moment he'd first fallen in love with Charles, he could really believe. That these are his own feelings, his own love, born from the rioting of his own heart.

*

“What do you know about me?” he asks Charles, outside the dark building of a government still foreign to him.

“Everything,” Charles says, something hidden in his smile Erik can't quite put a name to no matter how much he tries. And even if he doesn't quite believe Charles (or is afraid to, maybe, because honestly, how could someone chart every unmapped region of his brain, every half-forgotten memory in less than the couple of days they've known each other?), he stays.

And suddenly finds himself fighting Communists and nearly engaging in a threesome in a seedy strip club and, in between collecting their rag tag band of mutant outcasts and Charles saying “It's ours” in front of a mansion ten times bigger than anything Erik's ever set foot in, he barely even realizes how he's grown to depend on the persistence of Charles' smile. On how it's always a little bit brighter directed at him. On how his eyes light up when their gazes meet, how they invite him, entice him, to lower his guard, to step just a little bit closer.

 _Do you see all this?_ they tell him, a bright blue message just for him. _The dawn of a new era, and we are going to be the ones to shape it, you and me, together._

And Erik scoffs, because honestly, he doesn't really care about Charles' visions and dreams and half-cooked ideas of moral superiority; he’s here for his revenge and because he _needs_ this army to get it. Yet somehow he seems to revel in the prospect, after all. Charles animatedly talks to him about his plans, his hands fluttering and his voice full of excitement, and something inside of Erik flutters with him.

*

“What an _exhausting_ day,” Charles says, well-bred in even his resentment, “I sincerely hope that was the last we've seen of that young lady, but I'm afraid it won't be.”

Erik throws back the last of his whiskey, then holds the glass out to Charles for a refill. “We shouldn't have let them lock her up,” he says. “She's one of us, after all.”

Charles drops onto one of the uncomfortable chairs the CIA seems to deem adequate furniture. With a sigh, he runs a hand through his hair. “She's involved in a plot to provoke nuclear war. We had no choice.”

“She's one of us,” Erik repeats.

Charles bites his lip, averts his gaze. Erik watches his reflection in the black mirror of the window. Strands of hair have fallen into his face, yet they barely conceal the hard lines around his lips, the scenery behind the glass a ghostly echo in the shadows under his eyes.

“I know,” he admits.

Erik takes another sip of his drink. The liquor burns low in his stomach, warms his blood. The tips of his fingers tingle with need, and he nudges the metal of Charles' watch, feels the resistance of his wrist under his other touch. Remembers the ease with which he'd overpowered those Russian soldiers today, the shock on Frost's face when she'd realized exactly how powerful Charles is.

The way Charles' pulse had beaten under the grip of his hand, rushing with adrenaline and the use of his power.

 _We were gods today_ , Erik wants to tell him. Wants to see Charles' weary expression replaced with wonder.

But Charles doesn't look up, just runs his fingers absent-mindedly over the inside of his wrist and Erik's words catch in his throat.

His glass is empty, but the burning in his stomach doesn't fade, wanders higher all the way up to his chest, and in his mind there's the picture of Charles' skin, pale and soft under Erik's lips.

*

 _How did this happen?_ he asks himself, too perplexed to even be angry. When he's with Charles now, he watches himself, catalogues each of his reactions, collects them piece by piece. A buzzing in his blood, an involuntary smile. His treacherous body, always stepping a little bit nearer, always leaning in a little bit closer.

Somewhere, in the far recesses of his mind, he knows he's going to have to spare some deeper thoughts to this new development, and soon. Unfortunately – or fortunately – it's not like he has much time for brooding. All his time is spent training or with Charles, from whom he determinedly, desperately tries to keep these new thoughts. Eventually he decides to take the course of any reasonable adult and ignore the whole thing.

Which is why it's quite unexpected when, one day, he finds himself in a supply closet of all things, sucking kisses down the line of Charles' throat.

“Oh God,” Charles moans, on a breathless little laugh. Pulls Erik closer by the hem of his sweater. “I feel like a naughty schoolboy right now.”

Erik's still not quite sure how their conversation on best strategies to find Shaw had taken _this_ particular turn, but he postpones the thought to some later time. Maybe when he has less interesting things to do than unbutton Charles' shirt.

“Do you want to stop?” he asks against the little hollow between Charles' clavicles.

“Oh God, absolutely not!” Charles tears at Erik's belt with increasing impatience. His voice is hot against Erik's ear. “Now that I've finally got you here, I fully intend on never letting you go.”

All of this is very early, of course, so early that he doesn't even stop to think; how these words, completely innocent from any other person, can sound so ominous when they come from a telepath.

*

 _This complicates things_ , he thinks later, his lips in Charles' hair, when they've found their way into a bed.

“On the contrary,” Charles says sleepily, “I feel this has been the easiest decision I've made in months. The only thing that bothers me is that with all this ghastly fighting going on I’m not likely to find time to examine if it's really the MC1R protein that gives you your captivating hair color.”

“That is the worst pillow talk I've heard in my life,” Erik answers dryly. “Also you reading my mind invades my privacy.”

“I'll invade your privacy alright,” Charles mumbles, but then his breathing evens out, slow and hot against Erik's neck.

Erik turns his face, shields it from the afternoon sun in the shadows of Charles' curls. The light is warm on his back, on his shoulders, floods around them to smooth the marks on their skin. His empty palm fits perfectly on the soft protrusion of Charles' hip bone and he closes his eyes, smiles carefully. Just a minuscule movement of the corners of his mouth so as not to disturb the peace of the moment, as not to see their bubble burst under the weight of reality.

*

“ _This_ ,” Charles is saying to Sean, “is like any other muscle in the body, you can control it.”

Erik barely hears the words from where he is leaning against the frame of an open first floor window. The sun is bright in the sky, the small figures of Moira, Sean and Charles colorful spots against the vivid green of the lawn. Charles raises his fingers to his throat and Erik closes his eyes, lets his head tip back into the shadows where memories of last night live safely hidden from the blazing midday light.

The skin on Charles’ neck, soft under his lips as he pulls down the neckline of his sweater. The contours of his body, half-hidden from his hands by soft wool. His eyes, darkened under lowered lashes in the dim light of his room.

Sean turns to Charles, nods, then lets out another scream that makes the last remnants of glass burst from the frame in tiny clouds of glittering shards. Charles pats him on the back, radiating an accomplished sort of pride, and Erik finds himself leaning forward, registering the way Sean smiles as well.

Want simmers in his body, in his blood, his thoughts, but underneath, he wonders. If Charles has dug through Sean’s memories like he's dug through Erik's, how much of Sean’s progress is actually _his_ and how much is Charles.

If there are hidden corners left in all their minds, places that even Charles can’t find, or if they’re men made of glass for him to shatter with the secret whisper of his thoughts.

*

“I won't tell you anything.” The man wears a uniform Erik recognizes as high Russian military, buttons flashing in the garish neon-light of the interrogation room as he turns away from Moira. “You waste your breath, American.”

Her mouth is pressed in a flat line when she shoves another couple of satellite photographs towards him. “These ships.” Her index finger presses onto the paper so hard the tip goes white. “What are their destinations?”

The general doesn't acknowledge he's even heard her words, his chin held high, his arms folded over an impressive belly. Moira takes a deep breath, clearly about to start shouting, when Charles steps next to her.

“Leave it to me, Moira.” A light touch to her shoulder, and she hesitates, then gives a tired nod. Leans on the wall next to the other agents the CIA has brought in as– back-up? Guards? Erik's not quite sure. He is sure, however, of the guns they're carrying, and the fact that the door is locked behind them.

Charles sits down, crosses his legs. Plucks imaginary dust of his impeccably ironed slacks. “We are all friends here, aren't we,” he says casually. The general stares at him. For a second, his brows constrict, his body tensing. Then nods with a wide smile.

“Tovarich!” He spreads his arms wide. Charles smiles, and suddenly words are tumbling out the man's mouth, sentences, a whole flood of Russian.

“What's he saying?” Erik asks the agents, two of whom are now scribbling furiously into their notebooks, but it's Charles who answers.

“He says he's glad to meet me again – he thinks I'm an old comrade of his – and how stressful things have been in the Kremlin ever since the U.S. stationed these missiles in Turkey.”

“I didn't know you spoke Russian.” Erik frowns.

“Just a little bit.” Charles leans nearer, nods at the general while the man talks on, not minding the wavering attention of the person sitting opposite him. “It wouldn't matter if I didn't, though, would it? All language is born from thought, so...” He leaves the sentence hanging with a self-deprecating gesture and a smug smile.

“Why not just reach into his head directly and get the information?” One of the agents asks, a young man with an eye patch and a look of deep suspicion.

Charles turns around in his chair, eyes the agent curiously. “It takes quite a bit of concentration to extract something someone absolutely doesn't want to tell.” He shrugs. “It's much more elegant to operate one level deeper, to make them believe they want to tell it to you of their own free will.”

Erik looks at the Russian, deep in conversation with an imaginary friend, his cheeks red with laughter, the choppy, guttural sounds of his mother tongue flowing from thin lips. How he leans forward into empty space, gestures into a void Charles has filled for him without so much as a blink of his eye.

He inhales, tastes the metal in the room. All the iron bars, the steel of guns and handcuffs, humming in tune with his thoughts. Filling all the little cracks in his mind with the low thrum of power around him.

*

“When all of this is over,” Charles announces that evening, as he leans over the chess board, “I plan to open a school here. A school for the–“ he falters, tilts his head with a frown, then smiles, “let's call them _gifted_ , shall we? For all those like us.” He picks up his knight, captures Erik’s bishop. “You could be one of the teachers, if you’d like.”

“A teacher, me?" Erik can't help himself; he laughs. "And what would I teach your pupils, Charles? Shooting, knife-fighting, picking locks?” _Murder, slaughter, torture?_

“How about German, French, and Spanish?” Charles says, his lips tugged up in the slightest of smirks.

“I don’t think I’m cut out to be a teacher.” Erik leans back with a wry smile, taps his fingers on the arm rest of the chair.

“Maybe you'll change your mind someday,” Charles says. “Who knows what the future holds in store for us?”

Erik doesn't answer; instead, he takes a sip of his scotch. Lets himself think, just for a moment, while the crackling of the fire fills the room and Charles looks at him out of the corner of his eyes, even as his fingers brush over chess pieces while he ponders his next move. Of all their games so far, and how it could be, to sit here in this room and play, not for just a couple of nights more, but for months and years to come. To see Charles pick up a pawn, his eyebrows drawn together in concentration, a decade from now.

Charles’ lips curve upwards and then there’s another picture in Erik’s mind, of himself, standing in front of a whole class of mutants with a blackboard behind him. The look on his face is stern, but the lines around his eyes have softened. Erik’s quite sure he does not deem himself this attractive in his own thoughts and he smirks at Charles, raises an eyebrow.

 _Yes, who knows,_ he thinks, _maybe sometime, in the future._

*

That night, he dreams the same dream as every night.

_Shaw's face, contorted, warped in pain, in agony, in terror as he writhes at Erik's feet, the coin slowly pushing into his forehead. Following his every move, and his screams, loud and piercing and beyond human as it splits skin and muscle and bone–_

_Only this time, the coin stops before it kills him. Drops to the ground with a clear tinkle, bright red with Shaw's blood, as Erik withdraws his grip. Shaw crumples to the ground and steel bars sneak around him, bind him tightly. Moira comes with her fellow agents, taking him away, and Charles is standing next to him, touching his shoulder and smiling._

He opens his eyes. Charles is breathing slow and even next to him, his body a warm line next to his. Erik turns on his side, stares at the dark contours of Charles' head.

 _Where are you now, Charles?_ He raises his hand, only to stop short of Charles' cheek. _That place right now, was that in your mind or in mine? Am I dreaming your dreams, my friend, are you talking strolls through my subconscious right now?_

He sinks back, pulls out pictures from the drawers of his mind. Him as he'd seen himself in Charles' thoughts, as a teacher, a mentor, the hard lines of his face and body smoothed out by a life of peace. The visions of Shaw's death he keeps seeing every night, with himself standing over his broken body in rightful triumph.

He weighs them against each other, tries to line them up, to make them coincide. But soon sleep starts to tear at their edges, warps them beyond recognition, and then he's dreaming again, of Charles' smile and his mother on the other side of the candles, back when there had been no coin.


	2. Chapter 2

Charles is still sleeping when he goes down for breakfast. Raven’s already in the kitchen, finishing the last of her scrambled eggs and they exchange curt nods as Erik pads to the stove, pours himself some coffee.

“Raven,” he says, absent-mindedly spooning sugar into his cup, “how well can your brother control his powers?”

“He's not really my brother, you know.” She gets up, carries her dishes over to the sink. “Why do you want to know?”

The wooden edge of the chair digs into his skin as he leans back. “There’s a lot depending on him and his abilities if we want to defeat Shaw.”

She frowns. “I thought Shaw's telepath was in CIA custody.”

“It's not her I'm worried about.” With studious diligence he picks some breadcrumbs off the table. “If Charles is prone to projecting his feelings in a battle, it could affect all of us, even if he did it unconsciously. _Especially_ if he did it unconsciously.”

He sips his coffee, watches her over the rim of his cup as she stares at him.

“That’s not how his power works. It’s–” she falters, runs a hand through her hair. “I admit it must seem like that sometimes with the way he walks around picking up everyone’s stray thoughts, and I guess he's not really hesitant about using his powers, but he has them under control. He’d never endanger us in a situation like that.”

He raises an eyebrow, hums skeptically. “Really,” she assures him, “I mean, he's never read _my_ thoughts, even though we've been living together all our lives.”

“Anyways,” she turns around, starts drying her dishes, “I thought you’d know all this, given how much time the two of you spent together.”

Erik confines himself to a non-committal noise.

“I mean,” she slaps the towel onto the sink, “ honestly, I pegged you more for the lone wolf-type, and given all the women he used to flirt with–“ She stops, her face hidden behind the golden curtain of her hair. “And yet, here you are, shacking up together on the eve of World War III.”

Erik sets down his cup. “Raven–,” he starts, but she cuts him short with a tired gesture.

“Forget it. You know what? I’m late for my run with Hank.” When she walks past him her fingers brush his arm. “It’s not your fault.” Her voice is quiet, the skin of her hand fluttering blue for a second. Then she’s gone

Erik picks up his spoon, let’s it float around his outstretched fingers. He runs a hand through his hair, feels the shape of his skull, the pads of his fingers probing into its sutures, dents and cracks. Imagines his mind, its secret caverns underneath. Wonders if Charles is hiding in one of them, whispering to him.

It's scares him that, despite everything, the thought is still strangely comforting to him.

*

In the bunker after Alex has left, surrounded by steel and harsh neon light, he cups Charles' face in his hands, studies him – sight, touch, smell and taste.

_I could live without you, couldn't I_ , he thinks as he runs his thumb over Charles’ bottom lip. _If I wanted to, I could just leave all of this behind, so what would be the point?_

Somewhere inside him, there’s a nagging feeling that something is wrong with his line of thought, his logic. Like he’s overlooking something important. Like night in the woods, and he’s lost track of how many trees are around him.

And then Charles smiles, open and blinding, presses his lips against Erik’s, and Erik has to strain to hold onto his worries before they melt away under the warmth of Charles' touch.

*

“I thought we had all the information.”

Outside in the hall leading by Charles’ study, Erik slows down, stops short of the open doors. There’s a pause, filled only with the tinny murmur of the telephone.

“Yes,” Charles says, “I know it’s important, but has she even been assigned a lawyer yet? I’m not entirely certain about the legal precedents in this case.”

Out in the hall Erik grips the door handle tight, sets his jaw. The metal is cool in his hand, vibrating with him.

“Of course I can _do_ it. I--” Charles stops, heaves a sigh. “Very well. I'll be there in a couple of hours.”

The receiver hits the phone with a quiet clink. Erik enters the room, the sounds of his steps swallowed by the thick carpet. He eyes Charles’ back as the other man runs both hands through his hair, rubs them over his face.

“Going after the sticks they throw for you again?”

“I’m not in the mood.” There’s no surprise in Charles’ expression, just weariness, as he slowly turns around, leans against the desk behind him.

“But you’re in the mood to turn on our kind _again_ at the beck and call of these humans?” Erik steps forward, gestures. “Break into her mind, make her believe what _you_ want is what _she_ wants, until she’s but a puppet in your hands?”

His hands are shaking and he crosses his arms, wills himself to calm down. Charles stares at him out of wide eyes.

“I would never do something like this to you,” he says.

“This isn't about me,” Erik snaps, his voice cold even as something inside him – desperate, aching – wants to believe Charles. But maybe Charles wants him to want to believe him. Maybe he wants him to doubt and to overcome his doubt, to weave him into the illusion even stronger. Maybe he wants him to wonder if Charles's the one making him want to believe him so Erik’d realize how outrageously paranoid he’s being. Maybe he really means what he says. Erik’s mind has become a maze, a mirror cabinet, his own face reflected a thousand-fold around him.

And still, even now, when he looks at Charles, everything seems so simple. The turn of his head, the lines around his eyes, the soft curve of his lips in the fading afternoon light, and Erik’s heart speeds up, his blood sings, all the muscles of his body strain to move closer.

*

He takes runs, longer ones, far beyond the grounds of the mansion.

First the sounds are left behind him. Banshee's screams take the longest to fade away, and then it's just the rustling of leaves, the dull thud of his feet on earth, the harsh pants of his breath.

Next is sight, until the mansion's roof, the satellite dish, have vanished behind the green crowns of the trees, the slender outlines of their dark trunks.

He slows down to a trot, reaches out with his mutation. The harsh thrum of the mansion's steel beams and lead pipes, the light ping of cutlery and lamp sockets and hundreds of other small objects barely graze the borders of his mind. He moves on until they disappear completely, until the only thing left is the occasional tap of scrap metal that had been deposited in the woods.

When he reaches a small clearing he stops, hands propped up on his knees as he tries to regain his breath. Wild herbs are growing in little patches on the sandy ground, flowers swaying around him. Opposite him there's an old windmill, paint peeling off and blades rusty.

His shirt is soaked with sweat and he pulls it over his head, wipes his forehead. A shiver runs down his back as the breeze hits his bare skin. For a moment he closes his eyes, listens. To the sounds around him, birds and small animals and insects, barely audible through the rapid beating of his heart in his ears, slowing down only gradually. He pictures Charles' face, his voice, his body next to Erik's. Tries to decide if his heart picks up, if there's any sign, if the slight stab to his chest is anything other than over-exertion.

He reaches out to the windmill, picks blade after aluminum blade of its hinges.

_I love him, I love him not, I love him._

He shakes his head, scoffs at his own stupidity. Balls his fist, and with one long scream of tearing metal, the whole structure folds into itself, until there's nothing left but a crumpled ball of scrap.

*

He kisses Raven.

_Because she deserves it_ , he thinks.

_Because it'll hurt Charles_ , something in the back of his head whispers.

*

When he gets back to his room, Charles is waiting for him in the dark.

“Charles,” he says, surprised. Charles steps closer, the darkness only reluctantly releasing the black of his hair and his suit.

“I know what you think,” he says, “and I would like to tell you it's not true, only I can't. Because if you don't trust me, you won't believe me, and if you trust me, I wouldn't have to tell you in the first place.”

“I told you to stay out of my head,” Erik snaps.

Charles scoffs. “Please, Erik, as if I'd need my powers for that. You're a lot easier to read than you think.”

He passes Erik. Walks out of the door. Turns one last time, one hand on the frame. “I just wanted to tell you, so that whatever happens, you'll remember that _you_ were the one to throw it all away.”

The bitterness in his voice makes Erik's chest clench, burns down to his stomach even as he stares straight ahead, lets Charles leave without another word.

*

And still, later that night, he finds himself in front of Charles' room.

He brushes the smooth wood of the door with his fingertips, his hand hovering over the handle, reaches into the room with his mutation. But Charles' watch lies discarded on his nightstand and there's no more metal on his body to tell him where he is, what he's doing.

Suddenly the door is jerked open, and Charles stands before him. The top buttons of his shirt are open, his hair rumpled, dark circles under his eyes. For a long moment they stare at each other.

“What–?“ Charles starts, but then Erik's mouth is on his, Erik's hands in his hair, in his shirt. He pushes him back into the room, slams the door shut behind him. As he tears at Charles' clothes, he feels Charles frantically yanking at his own shirt, undoing his belt, his lips sliding down Erik's throat in wet, messy kisses. The bed slides nearer with a screech under Erik's pull, nudges the back of Charles knees, and then there are soft cushions around them and Charles' bare skin against his and the sound of Charles' moans in his ears.

“I want to believe you, I really do,” Erik murmurs against Charles's throat as he pulls him closer, closer, closer still. Until there's no air left between their bodies, until they're one, even if their minds aren't, or maybe are, or maybe until he's forgotten if it's even important.

“Then believe me,” Charles says. “Why can't you–?“

Erik plucks the words out of his mouth with his tongue, licks it clean until all things spoken between them have dissolved into white-hot fire.

*

The next day, they stop impending nuclear doom, and it's different, so different than either of them imagined. Erik gets his revenge, and he stops dozens, hundreds of missiles with his bare hands, an arsenal of death and destruction and _power_ his to use as he sees fit. His to unleash against the humans who have used and betrayed him.

Until the moment when Charles – _Charles_ – charges against him. The pain when he hits the ground is nothing against the realization that he has chosen humans over Erik, over them. Except then Charles goes down himself, a bullet in his spine, and Erik realizes there are still some things that are even worse.

Charles' body is heavy in his arms, his face flushed with pain, his eyes bright with it. Strands of his hair are plastered to his forehead and Erik almost reaches out to brush them back, when he realizes; he's wearing the helmet, Shaw's helmet that protects him from Charles' abilities, and still love is burning brightly within him.

“It wasn't you,” he says, puzzlement thinly coating the horror growing within him.

“No.” Charles coughs, his lips contorted into the shadow of a smile. “It wasn't.”

*

This is the truth, the one he had all too easily forgotten over doubting Charles and himself: Long before he'd started to notice the way Charles smiled, or the color of his eyes, Charles had saved him. Back when he'd been drowning, when he'd been dragged under water with no air left to breathe, Charles had jumped down to him into the cold dark depths, had pulled him up.

_You need to let go_ , he'd said, and Erik had let go.

Not that it matters now. After all he and Charles still want fundamentally different things, but–

_How could you forget?_ a voice inside him whispers, yells. _Of all the moments you were picking apart, how could you not think of this?_

He buries his face in his pillow, tries to drone out the silence of his room, the flat sound of his breathing devoid of its echo next to him.


End file.
